The Adventure of the Mysterious Blue Box
by I.Weave.Dreams
Summary: John and Sherlock travel to America to find a mysterious blue box. On the way they meet two hunters and an angel who are investigating suspicious deaths. They must work together to find the man with the blue box and save the world!


**Author's Note: Hello! Yes, this is SuperWhoLock! I've seen SuperWhoLock stuff floating around lately, and I love it so much I had to try it out myself. Also, just wanted to say that if anyone is reading this who reads my other story Ghost of Memory, fear not, I am halfway through writing the next chapter for that. I have not abandoned you! Anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.**

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><p>The rumble of car engines and shouting voices filled the air as Sherlock and John stood, waiting for their cab to arrive. They'd just gotten off the plane at the O'Hare airport in Chicago, Illinois, and John was surprised to see so much sunshine at the beginning of autumn. The flight from London to Chicago had been a long one, and John was feeling slightly cranky, and the fact that he had to keep watching out for Sherlock didn't help. Sherlock had a tendency to walk right into oncoming traffic when his mind was busy with a case, and it didn't help when he was tapping away at his phone either.<p>

Finally, their cab pulled up and they clambered in. Sherlock had put his phone away and was now staring out of the window. One might think he was watching the scenery as they flew down the motorway, but John knew better. His mind was wrapped up in a case, running through ideas and scenarios that only Sherlock Holmes could think up.

John knew better than to interrupt Sherlock when he was thinking, as he would no doubt respond with some demeaning remark, but he was putting his foot down here. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell are we doing in America?"

"I'm thinking," Sherlock said casually, although John knew it was a warning. That tone said, _'Ask again and I'll be forced to compare our intellects, and it won't be pretty.'_

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John had gotten used to him being a dick all of the time, so his words didn't faze him anymore. "Then stop thinking, and listen. You dragged me out of my bed at 2 AM, told me to pack a bag, without telling me where we were going and how long we'd be there, mind you, and I followed. Now you're going to tell me what the hell is so bloody important that we've come all the way to America for!"

Sherlock blinked back at John, his eyes slightly wider. John breathed in and out, waiting for Sherlock to reply. He expected a biting remark, but he didn't care. He was going to get the truth.

Surprisingly, Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and leaned against the car door to face John. "You heard the news about the alien spacecraft that landed in the Pacific Ocean a few months back, didn't you?"

John's eyebrows furrowed. "If this is your way of avoiding the question…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Answer the question, John."

John stared at him for a moment skeptically, not totally reassured, but replied anyway. "Yeah, but it was some sort of NASA experiment gone wrong, wasn't it? Some new rocket design that was accidentally launched?"

Sherlock's expression remained the same, giving nothing away that revealed what he was thinking. He looked at John as if he was studying him, examining him like an experiment. John said nothing. He was used to it. Sherlock moved his hands from his lap and steepled them together under his chin.

"And what about those 'daleks' invading Manhattan?"

"Robots, weren't they? Hollywood's idea of an April Fool's joke. Or were they trying to promote some movie?"

"And all those people who had ATMOS installed in their cars and died throughout Britian?"

"Poisonous exhaust fumes, wasn't it? Made them hallucinate?"

A laugh rumbled in Sherlock's throat, slowly bubbling to his lips before blooming fully. "How terribly convenient it must be for all of you simple-minded citizens. Big bad aliens attack the world and all the scary memories can be whisked away with a few half-baked excuses fed to you by news reporters. '_I saw it on the news so it must be true,'_" Sherlock mimicked in a high-pitched voice. He shook his head, smiling indulgently to himself.

John cocked an eyebrow. "So what are you getting at then? You're saying all of that stuff really happened? Aliens are real?"

"Oh course they're real, John," Sherlock said sharply, no longer smirking. "Think, John, really think about it! You only believe the cover-up because you want to. You're letting hard evidence that you've see with your owns eyes get erased from your memories because it's easier to believe than the truth."

John closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, say it is all true. What's it have to do with you? Isn't there that institute that deals with all this nutter stuff? You mentioned it once before…Torch…Torch…?"

"Torchwood."

"Right, Torchwood. Isn't it their job to clean up whatever you're after now? Speaking of which, what the _bloody hell_ are we doing here?" John repeated himself for the third time.

"Yes, it usually is their job, but even they can't find what I'm looking for. Admittedly, they have been much better since that American joined their team in Cardiff. Jack something," he waved his hand in the air. "But still, they can't help with this."

"And what is _this_?"

Sherlock smiled and looked out of the window. "There is one thing that all of these alien encounters have in common. One thing that links them." Sherlock paused, his eyes alight with wonder. "A blue box."

John's eyebrows shot up. "A blue box?" he repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, a blue box. It's always there. Appearing and then disappearing without a trace. No one ever notices…" he trailed off, and John knew he didn't have Sherlock's attention anymore, or not much of it at least. His mind was far off somewhere, formulating ideas and facts.

"Well someone must have noticed, if you've heard about it."

"The homeless network, John. They see things that others don't. They know the streets like the back of their hands. They notice when something in their environment changes. They know when something's out of place. When something has been added or removed. Like white blood cells detecting a virus. They notice a mysterious blue box, a foreign object in their midst. They can't be as easily talked out of what their own eyes have seen like the rest of you lot can."

John understood less than half of what Sherlock was saying. The only thing he could pick up on was that Sherlock was calling him, and the rest of the human race, stupid again. "Just curious," he titled his head, "but are you going to start making sense anytime soon?"

"The box, John! Don't you see?" Sherlock held his hands out in front of him vertically, as if he trying to grasps something between them. "Whoever controls the blue box has the answers. And we're going to find them."

"We're going to find someone that not even the British government, not even Torchwood, who's job it is to hunt these kind of things down, can do?"

"Precisely. As I'm more intelligent than both of them combined, I'd say our chances are pretty high."

John nodded, his lips folding in, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Right. Good. So what then? Your homeless network, which apparently extends to America, last saw this blue box wherever it is we're headed, then?"

"Very good, John," Sherlock said, mockingly approving, though there was a playfulness in his eyes.

John couldn't help but smile and mumble, "Piss off, you tosser."

They arrived at their hotel soon after. After refreshing themselves a bit, Sherlock instructed John to wear the suit he'd packed, and they were off again in a rental car. John drove, following the instructions on the GPS to the location Sherlock had typed in.

They ended up in a quaint neighborhood in a town called Kirkland. John parked the car a couple houses down from their designated address. As he unfastened his seatbelt, two men stepped out of a Chevy Impala a couple houses down from them.

Sherlock was out of the door a second later, and John followed quickly. The men were headed in the direction of the house Sherlock had typed into the GPS. One of the men was quite tall, with shaggy brown hair. The other was a bit shorter, with short, light brown hair, and they were both wearing suits.

John had to jog to catch up with Sherlock, who was approaching the pair with intent. "Excuse me, what business do you have here?" Sherlock called out, his tone authoritative. The pair stopped halfway up the driveway, their heads turning back to look behind them before their bodies followed.

"FBI," the shorter one spoke, reaching into his pocket to pull out his badge. "Here to investigate a recent murder. Now if you'll excuse us." His voice was gruff and deep. Not deep like Sherlock's, who sounded like a jaguar inside a velvet cello, but deep as in gravely.

The pair started to turn, when Sherlock said, "No you're not."

The pair looked at each other, the shorter one cocking an eyebrow before turning back to them. "And you are…?"

"Agents Lestrade and Donovan," Sherlock held up a badge, and it was thanks to months of outrageous things coming out of Sherlock's mouth that John didn't visibly react. John could only guess which agent he was…

To John's surprise, Sherlock held out his hand. The man looked at his partner briefly before reaching forward to shake it, letting go quickly.

"Well, sorry you had to go to the trouble of coming out here, but we've already got it covered." The shorter one gave them a tight-lipped smile, and John got the impression he was trying to get rid of them.

"I don't think so," Sherlock said evenly.

"Look, pal," he said, giving up the 'playing-nice' façade. "You want to speak to our boss? Go head. I'll give him a call right now." He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and began to dial.

"I don't need to speak to your boss. I know you're not FBI." A hint of a smirk was playing across Sherlock's lips.

The man stopped dialing and looked up. "Yeah, and how do you know that, Harry Potter?" He jerked his chin up and crossed his arms, an expectant look on his face.

John turned his shoulder to the pair and leaned in to Sherlock. "Sherlock, don't," he warned lowly.

"Your suits, for one," Sherlock began.

"Christ," John muttered, and couldn't help but give the pair a sympathetic look. "Here we go."

"They're cheap, even for FBI agents. Anyone who spends their days in suits would at least put a little money in to make themselves look as if they're important. All men who hold positions of power do try so hard to impress others with their status."

Sherlock pointed at the man's hand then. "The skin on your palms and fingers are rough, toughened, suggesting you do hard labor frequently. Probably with a shovel. No FBI agent would have hands like that. Considering the layer of dirt under your fingernails, you could enjoy gardening," Sherlock winced doubtfully, "although that's unlikely. The gunpowder residue also under your nails could be from the shooting range, but the way you have a revolver tucked into the back of your trousers instead of a proper holster suggests you use it often, but not professionally. And then there is the layer of salt around your sleeves…And I must say, you two don't look like the gardening type." Sherlock paused, and John closed his eyes. He knew what came next. "You know necrophilia is illegal, don't you?" Sherlock smirked, because he could be witty when he wanted to be. "That is why you dig up graves, isn't it?" And he was always clever.

The pair had gone slack-jawed. John watched at Sherlock's smirk deepened. The bloody git lived for these moments. An audience to his genius. Sherlock seemed to especially enjoy it when his audience was smug, like the shorter man seemed to be. He enjoyed knocking them down a peg.

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded, jabbing a finger at Sherlock.

"Dean," the taller man implored quietly, grabbing onto the man's elbow.

"No, Sam." Dean shook his partner's hand off and reached back for his gun.

Sam grabbed his arm again. "Dean, don't!" Sam exclaimed at the same time John drew his gun. John shouldn't have drawn it, he knew, seeing as this Dean character seemed the kind to shoot first and ask questions later. But his soldier's instincts had kicked in and he just reacted. Also, the thought of this guy pulling a gun on Sherlock didn't sit well with him at all.

Luckily though, Sam had a hold on his partner and now John had the upper hand. The pair looked at each other, and then Sam slowly let go and held his hands out in front of him. Dean scowled and followed reluctantly.

"So what are you guys then? Demons? Ghouls?" Dean barked.

John's steady glare twisted in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he barked back.

"I know it's like a fulltime occupation for you scumbags, but can we skip over the whole 'playing dumb' act? It's getting old."

"I don't think they're demons, Dean," Sam said cautiously, lacking the same cocky attitude his partner wore.

"C'mon! Look at them, Sam! There's no way that clown could know so much about us if he was just a regular dude."

"Sam's right." There had been a whooshing sound, like wings flapping, and suddenly a man was standing in-between them. He was wearing a trench coat with a suit and tie underneath. "Their coming has been foretold," the man said. His voice wasn't exactly monotone, although it didn't inflect much, it was more like one of those automated messages.

"What the hell is going on here, Cas?" Dean demanded, his hands no longer raised.

"Who are you?" John said, calling attention back to himself and the gun in his hand.

The black-haired man turned to him. "My name is Castiel. I'm-"

"An angel."

Everyone turned to face Sherlock. He was tapping away on his phone, and if you didn't know him, you'd think he hadn't been paying attention to a thing that was going on, and that he hadn't even been the one to speak. As it was, the two agents were looking at him strangely and sharing questioning looks.

"An angel?" John repeated in disbelief, sure he'd heard wrong.

"Yes, an angel. Obviously," Sherlock replied laconically. John opened his mouth, starting to ask 'how?' but then he shut it and just shook his head.

"Who the hell are these clowns?" Dean shouted, looking at the…angel, Castiel.

"Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, the only one. He invented the job. And Doctor John Watson, served in the Afghanistan war before being invalided home for receiving a bullet wound in his left shoulder. They solve cases together, their home base being a flat in London, England, 22lB Baker Street," the angel said, speaking as if he was reading from a book. "And I know what you seek." He turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock finally looked up, his complete attention focused on the angel. "The blue box," he said, it wasn't a question.

Castiel nodded. "It's controlled by a man whom we don't believe to be wholly human. We believe it to be an alien space craft of sorts. We don't know the exact details."

"By 'We' you mean you and the other angels, don't you?" John said.

Castiel nodded. "You're right for searching for him. You must find him. He has the answers to the alien encounters that have been occurring over the last six months."

"Great, you two have fun finding that blue box or whatever. Sam and I have to talk to a lady about her husband walking off the roof of his office building. That's the eighth one this week, so if you don't mind." He gave another tight-lipped smile and turned to walk up the driveway.

"This involves you both as well," Castiel said.

"No," Dean said, turning around once more. "It doesn't." He waved his hand between John and Sherlock. "If Bert and Ernie wanna go chasing after some UFO rubix cube, then they can go right ahead. We've got more important things to do, Cas."

"You have no leads on this case, Dean. Neither does Bobby or any other hunter you've contacted. This is bigger than you realize. All of you need to work together to find the blue box. Find the box and you'll find the answers, this case included."

None of them said anything for a couple of moments. John watched as Dean and Sam sized them up. John did the same, but one look at Sherlock told him that his mind was elsewhere. He'd already surmised all he needed to know within minutes of looking at the other pair.

"Fine," Dean said begrudgingly after another moment. "But we've got a few questions first."

"Of course," Castiel said, nodding.

"This guy…alien…thing," Sam began, "Is he on our side, or is he on 'theirs'?"

John'd been in the business long enough to know that 'their' side meant anyone who was 'bad'. Usually for him and Sherlock it meant murderers and jewel thieves, to this pair it seemed to mean vampires and ghosts.

"We're not exactly sure what role he is playing in these alien encounters. That's why we need you four to find out. It's been proph-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean waved his hand through air. "It was an angel's wet dream, we get it. Doesn't mean I'm just gonna trust them. For all we know they're working for that blue box bastard."

"Yes, because we're the one's who can't be trusted," Sherlock said evenly. "The trigger-happy hunter with the world's biggest chip on his shoulder, and his partner, the hunter with bottomless anger and self-loathing that he has every right to feel?"

"That's it." Dean advanced on Sherlock. Sam maneuvered in between them, putting his hands on Dean's chest to stop him. They struggled for a moment until Sam managed to push him back.

"Enough, Dean! If what Cas said is true, we have to work together on this," Sam huffed, keeping his eye on Dean until he was sure he wouldn't move.

He turned to John and Sherlock. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot." He extended his hand towards them. "My name's Sam Winchester, that's Dean, my-"

"Your brother, yes, I know," Sherlock said, although John noticed there wasn't quite the lack of patience in it he had given Dean.

Sam cocked an eyebrow as Dean walked up to his side. "How'd you know?" Sam asked, watching Dean warily.

"It's obvious that you share some identical genetic markers," Sherlock replied.

"Identical?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "No way. I'm way hotter than he is." He jerked his head towards his brother, smirking.

John quirked a smile. He watched as the two brothers argued good-naturedly back and forth, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. The angel, Castiel, tried to reign them in and bring them back to the situation at hand.

Oh yes, this was going to be interesting indeed.

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><p><strong>So, what'd you think? I'm not sure if I want to just leave this as a one-shot, or continue it. If anyone is interested in me continuing this, let me know. I know I keep asking this at the end of my stories, but I can never decide whether to make them a one-shot or a series, ha. Anyway, thanks for reading! Reviews are loved and appreciated :)<strong>


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